


Permit Me, Please

by elegantstupidity



Category: Parks and Recreation, The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Local Government, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26057308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: There's a reason no one likes working the Permits Desk.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Crossworks 2020





	Permit Me, Please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



> I would suggest not thinking about the timeline of this too hard. Jeremy Bearimy, baby.

**Monday**

When Ron roused from his post-lunch contemplation, he found himself alone. Had he been at home, or anywhere that wasn't the heart of Pawnee City Hall, no further action would be required. 

As it was, to ensure his continued privacy, Ron set about the routine reserved for whenever anyone who might object (Leslie) was gone: locking all the doors and getting down to some real work. Whistling a jaunty little tune—he had it on good authority that Duke Silver was working on something similar for this weekend's set—he strolled out of his office, content with the chance to get some woodworking in and temporarily stick a wrench straight in the cogs of the machine that was the hulking, over-encumbered beast called local government at the same time.

He froze, however, when he realized he wasn't quite as alone as he'd thought.

Standing patiently at the Permits Desk—even if he was eyeing the bell, hand sometimes twitching as he considered giving it a ring—was a member of the public. A member of the public who, as he was standing at the Permits Desk, likely wanted something from the government. Something that Ron was technically supposed to provide.

With his thick-rimmed glasses and sweater vest, this man—like nearly all citizens of Pawnee, save perhaps Tammy II—was not what Ron would term a threat.

And yet, he couldn't suppress the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

Under an expectant gaze, Ron had to check the urge to look over his shoulder for someone to take over. If Leslie were in, she would already be chivvying him towards his office, chattering the Welcome Speech she’d written for this month and probably getting the guy's life story while she was at it.

Unfortunately, Leslie was not in.

“Hello?” the man said, his brow furrowing in worry. And then, as if his placid patience was just a thin veneer for a roiling tumble of anxiety, he began to babble. "I'm sorry. Should I come back later? You are open, aren't you? I mean, you're here, so I'd assume the office is still open—"

"Ah," Ron said, weighing the decision to turn around and pretend he hadn't left his office in the first place against the likelihood that he'd get a tirade about the level of service owed to the citizens of Pawnee from Leslie whenever she got back. Even if he didn't manage to halt this nervous train in its tracks, there was a non-zero chance that Leslie's lecture might span days. His teeth ached to say it, but he managed to grind out, "Do you need something?"

Relieved, the stranger's shoulders slumped, and he offered a grin that only faded slightly in the face of Ron's antipathy. "Well, I'd like to reserve a park for an event. Can I apply for a permit here?"

"You can," Ron allowed, wanting to sigh. He'd made it a point not to learn where Leslie put anything when she went on her quarterly re-organization jags, and couldn't say which file or cubby had the applications. He could always have him jot down a note and leave Jerry or Leslie fill out the right forms. "Which park would you like to reserve?"

The general friendliness on the man's face froze for just a second before he jarred himself loose with an awkward, slightly hysterical laugh. "Oh, um. Whichever has enough space for about a hundred people?"

"That's most parks, son," Ron replied dryly, sliding him one of the pamphlets with a map of Pawnee's public parks. At least those were just out on the counter. 

Behind his glasses, his eyes had gone wide and worried again, but they were glued on the map now in front of him, his shoulders beginning to creep up around his ears.

Sensing blood in the water, Ron finally smiled. "When you make your decision, just let me know." Then, whistling that jaunty tune once more, he strolled back into his office and shut the door on any more agonized decision making. He could hear some beautiful cedar calling his name.

* * *

**Tuesday**

"Excuse me?"

Much as April might want to continue carving her portrait of Andy as a zombie hunter in the surface of her desk, free of the irritating realities of her job (also known as dealing with other people), she knew that tone. That tone that said, "I'm aware you're ignoring me, and I'm going to pretend you're not until you're forced to acknowledge me from sheer annoyance if nothing else." Working for the city government, April had gotten to know that tone very well.

She heaved a put-upon sigh and looked up. 

Standing just beyond the safety of the Permits Desk, was a woman who gave off the distinct impression of having never stepped foot on municipal property in her life. The way she held her arms close to her sides, like she didn't want to risk touching anything, but couldn't hide her appalled curiosity as she gazed around the office, spoke volumes. As did the upper crust accent and the delicate floral notes of her perfume—and that couldn't possibly be a Dennis Feinstein original, since he wouldn't know subtlety if it smothered him in a cloud of noxious gas as was only fitting—which only hit April once she was within a few feet of its wearer. Tossing a long curtain of dark hair to fall neatly down her back in what could only be an often practiced move, she smiled winningly when she noted April's approach. 

"Ah, hello. I do hope you can help me. I have a matter of some urgency; I'm hosting a soirée. In one of your parks, if I can find one to suit today. You see, we're not staying in your charming town for very long."

The pause was infinitesimal, but April still heard the moment it took to land on "charming" as an adjective for Pawnee. It wasn't as if April thought Pawnee was all that great either, but she lived here. She'd earned the right to think that. 

This woman clearly had not.

All of which added up to April taking approximately two seconds to decide that she was going to have a very good time ruining this lady's day. Well. Her next few hours at least.

"Well, as much as I'd just adore helping you," April said, layering on the old-timey sweetness until it was beyond cloying and her smile felt more like a grimace, "I'm dreadfully afraid that I have urgent business of my own to attend to. Perhaps one of our other employees—"

Before she could even finish the offer, she felt the slight gust of displaced air and the quivering anticipation of a man who did not pass up an opportunity to schmooze with a hottie at her side.

"Tom Haverford," he said, already reaching across the desk to take the woman's hand. He didn't even blink when she didn't shake, just let him grasp her elegantly dangling fingers like she expected him to kiss her knuckles. He didn't, which was good since April wasn't sure she'd be able to suppress a gag or a snort or something that would ruin her perfectly pleasant facade. "At your service."

"Tahani Al-Jamil," their guest replied, with all the weight of knowing whoever heard it would recognize the name.

Of course, April did, but then, she'd recognized her as soon as she saw her. April hadn't flipped through every magazine at the shoeshine stand for nothing. 

(She'd done it to hang out with Andy and avoid special projects from Leslie, generally in that order, but if she'd also picked up celebrity gossip, then that just proved there were drawbacks to everything.)

"Yes, well," she said, already backing away and half-dropping the sugary-sweet schtick. "I'm quite sure Tom will be more than happy to help you. With anything you need. Maybe you'd like a personal tour of our available parks?"

Tom, true to form, pounced on the chance. 

"I'm sure we can find something," he was saying, already rounding the desk and herding the startled socialite out of the office. "Not, of course, that anything here in Pawnee could be up to your standards. And if we don't, we can always transition our little tour into a working dinner. Perhaps at my place?"

Tahani only just managed to throw April an alarmed, bemused look over her shoulder as she was swept away. 

April didn't bother to tamp down on her responding smile. If she showed a few too many teeth for a real grin, well, it wasn't as if she'd hear the complaints.

* * *

**Wednesday**

Technically, Andy probably wasn’t supposed to be sitting _on_ the Permits Desk, trying to figure out if “Secret Toots” sounded better with going out on an E-diminished or if that made the whole thing sound too sinister, when he was supposed to be working _at_ the Permits Desk.

Then again, Andy didn’t technically work for Parks and Rec, so it wasn’t like he should be giving out permits in the first place. In the long run, he figured the exact position of his ass didn't really matter so much as long as he didn't give anyone a permit for digging up half of Circle Park like last time or lose any papers or something. Too bad he didn't have a freezer to keep all the important stuff here in the office. He should ask Leslie or Ron about it when they got back.

He strummed the chord again, frowning as he ran through the lyrics in his head. 

Or maybe not so much in his head.

"They're comin' for you. Sneakin' up, what can you do? Secret toots, secret toots!"

His guitar twanged with the final strum, and Andy considered the sound. He'd always known the Parks Office had pretty nice acoustics, but man. That sounded good! The kids were definitely gonna like this one. Then again, they liked pretty much anything about farts and boogers and burps. Which was why about 70% of Johnny Karate's catalog was dedicated to something kinda to really gross. Andy couldn't say he didn't know his audience. 

It was too bad the grown-ups usually didn't appreciate it all that much, though. 

"That sounded pretty cool!"

Whirling around to face the little waiting area in front of the desk, Andy was surprised to find someone actually waiting. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, "Thanks. And sorry. Were you waiting long?"

"Nah. Wanted to hear what you were working on," the guy replied. "Wouldn't really work for any of my sets, but still sounded good."

"You a musician?"

"DJ-slash-dance-crew-captain. Well, I used to be." He frowned before perking up a little. "DJ Music will spin again!"

"Awesome," Andy said, fully meaning it. "Anyway, can I help you or something?"

"Yeah!" he said, digging into one of his cargo shorts' pockets and pulling out a folded up piece of paper. Rather than hand it over, though, he began to read from it. "Hello. I'm Jason, and my friends and I are throwing a big, uh? Party?" He said it like that wasn't what was actually on the paper, but since he forged ahead, Andy didn't have a chance to question it. "This weekend."

"Sounds cool. But, uh, what brings you here?"

Jason frowned and glanced down at his paper, scanning over whatever it said. "Oh, right! I came to get some forms?"

"Aw, no problem, man," Andy replied, hopping off the counter to get him whatever he asked for. It might take a minute, but they'd get it figured out. "Which ones do you need?"

Jason glanced down once more before turning the sheet over to the blank back. Then, seeming to remember, he squinted down at his hand only for his brow to furrow. "Aw, dip. Can you read that?"

Andy tried, he really did, but he had no better luck making out the smudged ink on the palm thrust into his face than Jason. Jason who looked so totally bummed about it that Andy knew he had to cheer him up.

Legs swinging, Andy vaulted over the counter. "Jason, right? I'm Andy. Maybe you just need some food or something to help you remember."

"Yeah, maybe." Looking doubtful, but not so totally hopeless that it had to be a lost cause, the other guy asked, "You know any good wing places?"

"Not wings," Andy said, already shaking his head. At Jason's skepticism, he was duty-bound to defend his choice. Wings were great, but— "No, no, no. Trust me! You have got to try Big Head Joe's! They're the best. Plus, I bet they've got game highlights on."

Jason brightened immediately. "The Jags?"

Andy shrugged. The Jags weren't the Colts, not by a longshot, but he wasn't the one who needed cheering up. He clapped Jason on the back, and they headed out into the hall. "Sure, man. Whatever you want."

* * *

**Thursday**

“County Clerk is on the fourth floor,” Donna intoned, flipping to the next page of her magazine without looking up. She’d caught a glance of them as they walked in, and that was her professional assessment for these two. Older guy with an (arguably—a Meagle wasn't exactly in any place to judge) inappropriately younger woman? Yeah, that had drunken I dos written all over it. Donna had to give the Wamapoke Casino's Little White Chapel props for the business it must be raking in, if only judging by the number of people who wandered into the office looking to reverse those little indiscretions once they'd managed to sober up.

Maybe if the tall drink of water had come in on his own, she'd be more inclined to give him her undivided attention, but with the short blonde at his side, Donna didn't feel much like wasting the effort.

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw them turn to one another, trading matching, confused looks. 

Clearing his throat, Mr. Bow Tie ventured, "County Clerk?"

"Divorce filings." When a long silence followed, Donna finally looked up and gave the pair some actual scrutiny. Hm. Didn't seem as hungover as most of the would-be divorcés that slinked through City Hall. For one, they weren't stumbling around in last night's finery. Plus, they didn't have that intangible air of shame and regret fogging their every move. Well then: "Probation offices?"

“Uh, yeah," the little blonde said, eyes narrowed and looking like she wanted to say something snider. She could try, but Donna was _not_ about to play. "No, we're in the right place. We need a permit for an event in one of your parks this weekend."

Donna raised an eyebrow. "This weekend? Yeah, I don't think so." One long nail tapped at one of the posted warnings plastered to the desk: _Permits must be issued at least five business days in advance of an event._

As one, they both read silently, finishing at the same time and making eye contact. That silent look and synchronicity were far more interesting than the article on celebrity sightings around Pawnee. Like hell had one of the Al-Jamil sisters shown up in town; the _Pawnee Star_ really needed to step up their Photoshop game if they wanted anyone to believe that picture wasn't fake. That silent conversation gained volume as they turned toward one another, mostly murmuring too low for Donna to pick up. She did hear an "Eleanor, if we don't—" followed by a hissed, "Get it together, man!" but that was about it. 

Donna let her magazine slip closed and folded her hands under her chin to watch in rapt, undisguised attention.

The blonde, Eleanor, seemed to come to a decision after a short—possibly vicious—whisper-fight and straightened her shoulders, sidled up to the counter, and propped one elbow on it, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Listen," she said, dropping her voice into a hushed, ingratiating lull. "I understand that there are rules and whatever, but, really, aren't they just begging to be broken?"

Donna might've been more receptive if it had been her companion to get all "I'll rub your back if you rub mine," but she was a connoisseur of intrigue in all its forms. She'd allow it. She'd make her work for it first, though.

"I'm sure you're not asking a city employee to break any rules for you now, right?"

Eleanor grinned, no doubt hearing the challenge. "Maybe not break... But bending? There must be some kind of fast track for these kinds of things."

Donna hummed. There was. It was just a bitch and a half to actually pull off. 

Well, now she kind of wanted to see them try.

"All right," she said, reaching into no fewer than six separate cubbies and three file folders to accumulate a stack designed to slice straight through bureaucratic red tape before passing them over. "If you get these filled out, with the appropriate permissions and signatures, and turn them in by tomorrow, I think we can work something out."

The pair looked a little put out that they had to actually go do some work rather than just pass over a bribe, but the forms disappeared from the desk anyway.

"You," Donna purred, giving the long, lanky silver fox a sweeping once over before he could leave, "are more than welcome to come back any time you like. With or without the forms." 

His eyes went wide, but he chuckled as his friend rolled her eyes and tugged him out the door. 

* * *

**Friday**

Leslie was _not_ running late for her lunch with Ben. The fact that she was a few minutes behind the schedule she'd put together for herself at 2:30 this morning—which would make her twenty minutes early—was a bit of a sore spot, but only because she wanted to make sure that their booth at J.J.’s was open. The last time they’d gone, they’d had to settle for the next booth over, and it wasn’t bad. Nothing at J.J.'s could ever be truly bad. Though, maybe, the whipped cream didn’t taste quite as sweet. 

It was just as she was about to step out into the bullpen when she caught sight of the member of the public waiting placidly at the Permits Desk and not one of Leslie's coworkers around to help her. She hesitated.

She could slip out into the courtyard and get to J.J.’s with ten minutes to spare. Leslie could do it, but she’d feel guilty all lunch for leaving a perfectly nice looking—and sounding; for all she hadn't said anything yet, the fact that she hadn't already started yelling put her well ahead of many other Pawneeans—woman waiting. If whipped cream lost a bit of its deliciousness in the wrong booth, she didn't like to imagine what the bitter taste of guilt would do. So, pasting on a smile, Leslie approached and asked, "How can I help you?”

“Hello. I'm Janet. I have permit applications that need to be processed.”

Oh, well. Leslie could process Parks permits in her sleep. A few times during the election, she'd found that she actually had. Sleepwalking Leslie even did a pretty good job; she had a real eye for detail. 

"Well, hello, Janet. I'm Leslie Knope, Deputy Director of Pawnee Parks and Recreation," she said, settling into the familiar groove of Citizen Interaction. No matter how late she might be running, there was no need to slack on etiquette. She had an example to set, after all. "What kind of permit do you need?"

"An event permit for the Ramsett Park Pavilions," the woman replied, placing a crisp, neatly filled out Form 15-A on the counter.

Leslie nodded along, glancing over all the information until she snagged on what could only be a mistake. 

"Ah," she said, tapping the field. "This says you're reserving the Pavilions for tomorrow."

"Yes, that is correct."

Leslie smiled and braced herself for the yelling that typically came after telling a citizen of Pawnee, "No." However nice Janet seemed, what with her patient waiting and polite requests and matching skirt and vest, there was no telling when an otherwise rational person would turn into someone who was caring very, very loudly right in Leslie's face. 

"I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid that that's not possible. Permits must be issued five business days in advance."

"Unless there is an accompanying Form 31-T, Release 8.91, and written permission from the Pawnee City Council," Janet replied, producing all three and laying them beside the initial application.

"True," Leslie allowed, slow and a little taken aback. She could count on one hand the number of times anyone had actually turned those forms in. "But that's only to put a rush order on the application process. To get Facilities Management on board, I also need a 63-6, an 89-A and 89-C, plus all three 914s."

As she rattled off forms, a pristine hard copy of each landed before her. Leslie could feel herself grinning. It wasn't often she got to do a deep dive into the nitty gritty of City Hall Bureaucracy.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just need a—“

“Form 92-B,” Janet said, sliding a fully completed form, along with all the requisite attachments and signatures, across the desk.

Leslie couldn't help but be impressed. "Wow, you tracked down James Ingerson?" she murmured, letting her fingers trail over the shiny ink. She'd been trying to book a meeting with him since Ron first hired her. 

"That is his signature," she replied, her smile turning a bit wooden. 

Leslie just nodded absently, eyes scanning over the array of paper spread before her. Ben wouldn't mind if she brought this to lunch, would he? No, of course not. He was used to it by now. Beaming, she looked up. "Then I think this is all in order. Congratulations, you've reserved the Ramsett Park Pavilions for tomorrow."

She was sure Janet said something polite as she left, but honestly, Leslie was too absorbed in leafing through the sheaf of forms, each one perfectly dovetailed to the one that referenced it first. There was nothing quite like perfectly filled out paperwork.

She didn't care what her coworkers said, it was times like this that made her sure that there was nothing better than working for the government of the greatest town in the world.

* * *

**Next Monday**

It was the distinct clearing of a throat that made Jerry look up from his filing. He didn't quite jump when he was confronted by the impassive face of the suited man standing across the counter from him, but something that felt an awful lot like when Gayle was about to call him the B-word sank into his stomach.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked, half hoping the man had just come into the wrong office and needed directions somewhere.

The man stared at Jerry hard for a long moment—he didn't say anything, but Jerry could swear he heard something unflattering echoing through the air anyway—before drawing out a few photographs from the inside pocket of his jacket, drawing attention to the distinctive pin on his lapel. Huh. Who had a pin with a thumbs down? "Have you seen any of these hu— people recently?"

Dutifully, Jerry studied the photos. They weren't quite mugshots, but they were certainly more flattering than most DMV records. One of the women looked a bit familiar; maybe he'd seen her on one of Gayle's or the girls' shows? Not well enough to come up with even an inkling of her name, though.

"I'm sorry, but I don't," he answered. 

"You're sure?" the man asked, looking thoroughly displeased and ready to take it out on Jerry. "They would have been here sometime last week."

"I can ask the others," he offered, sweeping up the pictures and turning to leave them on the table behind him for the others to check. "But you know, I wasn't in the office at all last week. I took my beautiful wife Gayle out to our timeshare in Muncie, and we—"

When he turned around, Jerry found that he'd been talking to himself for who knew how long.

He shrugged, used to it, and got back to alphabetizing.


End file.
